


Body Talks

by Mahto



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Body Swap, Ciri is a teen and she's DONE, Crack, Gen, M/M, it's just crack, yesterday my brain gave me 12k of emotion and today it's this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:34:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22360390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mahto/pseuds/Mahto
Summary: Everything’s fine, except for the bit where Jaskier is Geralt and Geralt is Jaskier, which is to say that absolutely nothing is fine at all.Ciri thinks she might scream.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 66
Kudos: 816





	Body Talks

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to call this 'two dads one cup'.

Ciri wakes to sounds that are starting to become familiar now, a few weeks into travelling with Geralt: the rustling of a bedroll being packed, followed by quick, efficient drags of a boot over dirt and stone to cover last night’s fire pit from trackers. It’s a comforting way to wake - Ciri had started to find her eyes refusing to open just so she could savour that sense of being safe and cared for once again. _A few more seconds_ , she thinks, for even young witcher-to-be’s could surely spare a few seconds even if they can’t have minutes. _Just a few more... ah, there it is_ , that distinctive sound of Geralt’s witcher potions clinking against each other as he hitched his saddlebags to Roach’s saddle. They may be hungry, filthy, and facing another long day of riding, but she’s also _happy_.

And then...

Well.

She opens her eyes.

A few days ago, she and Geralt had run into a bard. Almost literally, though it perhaps would be more accurate to say he had run into _them_ , yelling something over his shoulder about how it absolutely was not his fault the duke’s wife had preferred his plum and gold finery over his lordship’s pimply arse, didn’t he know how to bathe properly? The bard had then proceeded to hide behind Roach, still yelling insults until Geralt stepped forwards and made a face Ciri had never seen in their weeks together but was starting to dub his ‘ _he’s an idiot but he’s my idiot_ ’ face.

Since then, Ciri had learnt three things about Jaskier, master bard:

  1. He possessed lungs of steel, on account of how he _never shut up_ ;
  2. Despite this, or maybe because of it, he was utterly deserving of his title and fame, capable of making her laugh with outrageous charm at least twice a day, and;
  3. He and Geralt got along like a house on fire, both literally and metaphorically.



Geralt had introduced him as “my friend, Jaskier,” but with the longest sigh of suffering known to mankind. Yet _Jaskier_ had thanked him (possibly sarcastically) before flouncing off to grab his gelding, Pegasus, and invite himself along on their journey.

Which Geralt, oddly, just took in stride.

It wasn’t that Ciri minded the extra company - Jaskier filled in Geralt’s sometimes stifling silences with ease, and Ciri knew more now about the gossip of Oxenfurt than any student. Who could have guessed the faculties of Applied Magics and Contemporary History are feuding due to the Greater Daisy Beds Incident of 1249? Jaskier, moreover, is _kind_ ; he reads her moods better than Geralt, and knows when to hold off on pushing her for explanations.

What Jaskier does not do, of a morning, is draw Geralt’s sword, then proceed to attempt to swing it only to nearly stab himself in the foot when the momentum catches him off balance. Ciri watches in mild fascination as he lets lose a stream of swears colourful enough to make a jarl blush before snarling and making the sign for _aard_.

Nothing happens, of course. Jaskier is not a witcher - Jaskier cannot use witcher magic. Even Ciri knows this, and she’s only known Jaskier for a few days. Yet he’s staring down at his hands as if they’ve betrayed his location to that duke chasing him from the last town they passed through, and then trying to sketch _axii_ in the air instead.

“What,” says Ciri, quietly.

“Ah, yes,” says Geralt’s voice with Jaskier’s inflection, to her right. She looks. It is, in fact, Geralt’s face trying to contort into Jaskier’s cheery grin. “Good morning, little princess!”

Ciri drags a hand over her face and replies in a voice that implies she’s fifteen going on two hundred, “ _Is_ it a good morning?”

* * *

Not-Jaskier and Not-Geralt have forgone packing up camp in favour of having a loud domestic. (It could be foreplay, actually. Ciri’s still not sure yet, but she did grow up with Queen Calanthe, patron saint of insults as flirting.) Because this will be her life for the foreseeable future, she stows her meagre belongings in her bag before quietly taking a seat next to where Roach and Pegasus are grazing and settling down to watch.

“Don’t do that with my face, Geralt!” Geralt's snarling, one gauntleted hand pointing mid air for emphasis. “I know you, you’ll get it stuck like that out of _spite_ , and then where will those who are lonely find their one, star-struck night of true love?”

Jaskier scoffs. “I will be doing both of us a favour if you never stick your dick where it isn’t wanted again.”

“Geralt!” Geralt seems mortally offended. It’s a new look on him. “There is a young lady present!”

Ciri blinks back at them when they turned in tandem to look at her as if shocked to find her still here. In all fairness, she’s shocked, too.

“No,” she says in her best magnanimous queenly tone, waving her hand. “Please, do go on. I was getting homesick for the court jesters.”

But mentioning the court leads her to the fall of Cintra, a topic that effectively shuts all three of them up. Pegasus noses at Not-Geralt’s hair, then starts to munch on it like he would normally with Jaskier’s. Not-Jaskier’s eyebrow immediately develops a twitch.

“Oh, shut up, Geralt,” says Geralt. “I washed intestines out of your hair this morning. Horse drool is the least of your worries.”

The twitch gets _louder_.

* * *

The worse part, Ciri decides, is that absolutely nothing is actually any different. It’s strange, certainly (for want of a better, stronger word), to see Geralt's body with Geralt’s biceps in his everyday armour make grand, flamboyant gestures at every feature on the path. She doesn’t think she’s imagining the winces crossing Jaskier’s face, or the tightening of his fists around Roach’s reins when Geralt’s rumbling voice tries to raise in song. But those are petty things. Small things.

The big picture, however, has stayed exactly the same. Ciri thinks there should be more… more… concern? Disgust? _Some_ indication that either Jaskier or Geralt thought it unusual to wake up having swapped minds overnight. Instead they still bicker nonstop as if nothing has changed!

Is this normal?

Is she the strange one?

 _Melitele, please, I beg you…_ All she wants is a sign that she’s now in the care of competent, well-adjusted adults, even if one is a witcher with emotional constipation and the other a bard unable to keep anything in his pants. Ciri had met odd people, in Cintra - nobles liked to keep bloodlines in the family, consequences happened - and even they’d made for good adult figures at the end of the day.

But no, the world can’t spare her even that.

“Was it the monster you went after last night, Geralt? That... whatsit? Loh-something?” Geralt waves an arm around from atop Pegasus, nearly unseating himself. Pegasus, who is, evidently, very much used to such acrobatic endeavours, continues to calmly amble along seemingly unconcerned about carrying a little more extra weight than usual. Geralt (Not-Geralt? Jaskier-Geralt?) had attempted to clamber atop Roach at first, only for the witcher’s mare to glare him down until he backed off and let her graze in peace.

“Must have been.” The reply is curt, and accompanied by a scowl that’s as out of place on Jaskier’s face as it is in his voice. It contrasts sharply with his gaudy rings and indigo doublet, complete with bright orange piping.

“Don’t worry, Geralt,” Geralt says with airy lightness that was unique to Jaskier until this precise moment. “I’m sure you know of a _lovely_ mage who could help us out. Why, if you ask her nicely, or perhaps grovel at her feet and lick her boots, she might even keep you out of jail this time!” His tone is petty against the background of Geralt's usual rumbling baritone; Ciri's head hurts trying to reconcile it.

A terrible thought hits: what if the change is permanent?

Ciri eyes the forest creeping at the edges of their path and considers taking her chances.

* * *

After hours of not seeing another soul, they come across a horse and cart shortly before sunset.

“Hello there, my good man!” Not-Geralt greets, flashing his wolf’s teeth in a smile. The merchant pales. “What goods have you to sell, and what news of the road ahead?”

“Mmmhmpf,” the merchant replies, intelligently. He’s turned a sickly shade of green, eyes darting left and right as if he’s thinking he’ll brave the woods instead. Ciri feels a sudden stab of kinship, or perhaps hunger. They'd missed lunch, on account of the earlier domestic delaying their departure.

“Mmmhmpf?” Geralt’s body may temporarily have Jaskier’s way with words, but he lacks the bard’s uncanny talent for mimicry. The question morphs into grumbling thunder, and Geralt wrinkles his nose (snarls) in annoyance.

What news the merchant does have to give, exactly, was destined to forever remain a mystery for the man had booked it at the first hint of wolf’s teeth behind Geralt’s lips, leaving behind both his wagon and his horse, the latter with a look close to a concussed alghoul.

The chestnut mare blinks at Ciri.

Ciri shrugs back at her.

“Alright then, keep your secrets,” says Geralt, chipper as ever despite having just made a man piss himself from smiling at him. Or perhaps because of it - it’s hard to tell, since Ciri can’t see his face from where he’s bounding off Pegasus to dig his way through the abandoned wares. “Ciri! Every princess wishes for a pony, right?”

"That mare's useless," Jaskier grouches. He's made his way over to the wagon, too, his brows drawn close as he frowns down at the mare's hooves.

Geralt plants his hands on his hips. "Well, I don't see _you_ offering an alternative, oh wise witcher! The princess needs a horse, and poor Roach could do with a rest, too - Pegasus is exhausted from having to cart your bulk around all day."

" _Bulk_?" Jaskier is attempting to sound threatening, Ciri thinks. It comes out very squeaky.

"Yes, your great, fat ass and thighs all squeezed into this ridiculous armour. Roach needs a break, and Ciri needs her own horse - you cannot be contrary just because you think every decision I make is foolish!" 

There's a long pause. Ciri mulls it over - it _would_ be nice to have her own horse instead of riding with either the witcher or his bard all the time. Speak of the devils...

Not-Jaskier has finally managed to work his mouth open again. "I don't... I'm not being contrary," he says, and he sounds so confused. He's leaning in, now, and Not-Geralt is cupping one massive hand around Not-Jaskier's cheek, and-

 _Yes,_ Ciri thinks, digging in her pockets for a sugar cube to lure the chestnut mare over to her, _I am a princess, and the princess does want a pony_.

She'll be able to ride ahead, with her own horse. They can make out in peace, where she won’t see it. Or hear it. Or have to think about how it’s technically Jaskier in Geralt’s body that’s now pinning Geralt in Jaskier’s body to the cart and murmuring in sordid detail his plans to take advantage of his temporary witcher strength. It’s fine. This is her life, now.

“I’m naming you Fate,” Ciri tells her new mare. “Short for ‘fate, fuck off’.”

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I don't even know anymore. Sorry?


End file.
